​With some hesitation, I knock on the bathroom door where Bonnie is taking a bath. The various noises, the giggling, the talking to herself and squeak of toys has stopped. A small pang of alarm redirects my attention away from the novel I’m reading and propels me up to check on her.

“Bonnie?” I say softly, “Are you almost done?”

I receive no answer. My heart jumps into my throat as I twist the knob and open the door. ​

Everything appears normal at first glance. The tub is halfway full of bubbles and water. Naked barbies sit on the lip of the porcelain, their wet hair dripping down the side of the tub. Bonnie is sitting waist deep in the water where I left her after I helped her rinse the shampoo from her hair.

She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t respond right away. Instead she stares down at the water.

“Bonnie,” I say again, “Are you okay?”

I kneel down next to her to get a better look. She turns to look at me and her expression is serious and morose, unlike anything I’ve ever seen from her.

Her pupils are dilated, the black pits wide with only a thin layer of green iris surrounding it. Her brown hair splays around her shoulders like a dark cloak.

I help Bonnie up from the warm sudsy water and wrap her in a towel. She is so small. My hand is twice the size of her arm. I don’t know what to do with such a small, sick child.

I send her to bed and dig the cell phone out of my jeans pocket. Her parents don’t answer, so I leave a voicemail. I keep my voice level. I try not to sound desperate.

When I check on Bonnie, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the towel still loosely wrapped around her. She’s staring at the empty closet.

​I help her into bed, peeling back her bubblegum pink bedspread and gingerly set aside her stuffed animals and think about how bleak the situation is in contrast to the happy, bright room of a 6 year old. I watch her stare at the ceiling with that same, blank expression.

“Bonnie,” I say, trying to prompt her again into telling me what’s wrong.She looks at me and from the corner of her mouth, shiny black liquid, like motor oil, dribbles out. For a second, it’s all I can to do just stand there and stare. Then I burst into action, wiping at her mouth with the sheets, shushing her even though she isn’t saying anything, shushing myself more than her. ​

“Bonnie, what happened?” I say, “Bonnie, did you eat something?”

She nods her head.

“Okay, okay,” I say, glad that she’s responding at least, glad that at least I know that poison control is the number to call.

“What did you eat?”She opens her mouth to answer and I see something inside her, something hard and black and mangled. It tries to escape, an edge creeping out the side of her mouth. Her small pink lips close around it and it recedes back between them.

I stare at her, my fingers perched above the buttons on my cell phone.“Open your mouth,” I command, with a quiver in my voice.She does.